


Grey Light

by Elianara



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Not Happy, Post-Episode: The Abominable Bride, Post-Season/Series 03, Sad Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-01
Updated: 2017-01-01
Packaged: 2018-09-13 23:40:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9147127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elianara/pseuds/Elianara
Summary: John and Sherlock have a relationship but it's not what either of them would have hoped for.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Sad angsty johnlock. I had been Hoping to turn this into something longer but I wanted to get it posted before season 4 and I've managed by a whole four hours!

The cab driver didn't ask but looked carefully at John in the rear view mirror. The grimy grey light of a London dawn seeping in through filmy windows.

  
John was all too aware that his hair was mussed, his shirt creased. Jacket too thin for the weather. He was too old to be coming home from a club (Christ, the thought) and too early, too shabby to be going to work.

  
He had asked to be dropped two streets away. A courtesy to his former neighbours he reasoned. They’d had enough over the years with sirens, explosions, violins. Really though it was shame. Shame that it had come to this again after all the things he’d told himself. That it had been a one off, the scotch, the adrenaline, the last time. The things he told himself every time.

  
This time it was the dream. The old dream that had violently pulled him awake so often before. He could all but taste the smoke and dust in the back of his throat. His ears ringing with gunfire as he woke up to the bland calm of his suburban life. The steady breathing of his wife, his wife who had once known the sound of gunfire all too well, almost an insult.

  
THe blue screen of a laptop glows in the window as he approaches and he’s not sure if he imagines the narrow shadow passing behind. It’s not unusual for Sherlock to be up but John wonders if the detective knew he was coming. If he gave himself away by some gesture or twitch earlier in the day as they worked side by side in the lab at Barts. After all this time the deductions, the process are still half genius, half glamoury to John.

  
He slips in the front door. Still deft in the lift and jig needed to enter 221 silently. Even with that and the careful avoidance of the creaking step he imagines Mrs Hudson lying awake, listening, knowing. The flat door opens ahead of him.

  
‘I heard footsteps.’ Sherlock whispers, violin dangling from one hand like a forgotten toy as he steps aside to let John in, closing the door behind him with a glance on to the landing. He leans back against the pitted wood to look at John.

  
Out of his suits Sherlock is a rumpled mess. Pyjama pants hanging low on his hips, the blue silk dressing gown creased as if it’s been slept in. It covers his arms, stops John covertly checking for track marks, though he knows it's pointless. If he wants to, the brilliant chemist will find some way of getting whatever poison he chooses into his system.

  
‘Afghanistan again.’ Sherlock says, not a question, as his hand drifts through John’s hair, his scalp still damp with sweat. ‘It’s happening more often - it had stopped at one point.’ John blinked, neither of them mention when that point was, years ago, _before_.

  
Humiliation crawls over John's skin even as he starts to respond to Sherlock’s proximity, the familiar, expensive scent of him, the angles of his body. The detective leans down to kiss him with a tenderness he doesn't deserve and John gratefully runs his hands over warm cotton and silk, reaching up to rub along the nape of his neck and for a few seconds it feels like something else. Like that first promising kiss after a date, like this is a seduction, like it’s going somewhere.

  
Sherlock pulls away first, something sad but hungry in his pale eyes. He carefully turns John round so his back is pressed to the to the rough surface of the door. The detective sinks to his knees and starts to pull open John's trousers, his hands careful but shaky with the needy hard flesh. John shivers with anticipation _Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock always knows what he needs…_

  
Then he makes the mistake of looking round the flat. Papers, books, crime scene photos scattered everywhere The detritus of a life he used to live, used to love. Except for one place. The armchair with the tartan rug. It’s pristine, like a shrine.

  
‘Sherlock, not like this.’ He said gently, pressing against the detective's shoulder, bone and muscle taut under his hand. Sherlock scrambles to his feet.

  
‘That is why you're here Dr Watson, isn’t it?’ He says, voice cracking with fury and grief. Sherlock steps back his own arousal moving loosely under the thin cotton of his pyjamas, obscene and almost ridiculous.

  
‘To _relieve the tension_? That’s all you need from me. You don't need to _take me to bed_ for that.’ Sherlock spits the words. Words that should be tender, passionate sounding like a curse.

  
‘I’m sorry.’ John whispers. Crossing the room and folding the younger man into his arms. Saying more would be agonising and possibly a lie.

  
They sit together on the sofa, initially in each other's arms but drifting apart as daylight fills the room. John trying not to glance at the clock.

  
‘You need to go.’ Sherlock's says finally. Staring ahead, knees drawn up to his chest. ‘Don't worry, I’ll cover for you if she asks.’

  
‘Sherlock I…’ He wanted to say he didn't expect it but it was a lie.

  
‘I always do.’ Sherlock's tone had become icy bored. John gathered his jacket, anxiously straightening himself in the mirror.

  
‘I can't keep doing this, this needs to stop.’John said, injecting his voice with a determination he didn't feel. Sherlock didn't stir as he left, quietly shutting the door. 


End file.
